


My Little Dream--Working the Machine

by screamymeemies



Category: Gorillaz
Genre: A lot of Murdoc feeling sorry for himself, AU, Action, Adventure, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe – Canon Divergence, Angst, Body Horror, Canon-Typical Violence, Demon Summoning, Demons, Drama, Explicit Language, Gen, Human Experimentation, M/M, Mental Breakdown, Mental Instability, Obsessive Behavior, Other, Phase 3, Pirates, Possibly Unrequited Love, Suicidal Thoughts, Unresolved Sexual Tension, but Russel and Noodle are gonna be doing some cool shit, but that's canon typical too tbh, plastic beach, possibly eventual smut, yea boi they're gonna be fighting some pirates, yeah that's where the 2doc is coming into play
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-03
Updated: 2018-09-23
Packaged: 2019-06-21 01:50:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,851
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15546969
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/screamymeemies/pseuds/screamymeemies
Summary: [[Plastic Beach/"2Droid" AU - Takes place immediately after Phase 2 without the canon hiatus.]] Murdoc Niccals believes he is the sole survivor of the attack on the Windmill isle and Feel Good Inc. Tower, and despite being overcome with grief and self-hatred, he resolves to move forward. After creating his pact with the enigmatic demon "Bogeyman," he and his newly dubbed "2Droid" make their way into the vast unknown. Meanwhile, Russel Hobbs and Noodle are having their own arduous dealings with a bloodthirsty pack of pirates known as the Black Clouds. And where could 2D possibly be...?





	1. I Saw That Day / Lost My Mind

**Author's Note:**

> My first fic on AO3, and so I've decided to delve into my own multi-chapter fic on the 2Droid AU I've seen floating around several places. Hence I will not take credit for the creation of the AU--this is merely my own take on it. This all happens immediately following the El Mañana shoot but runs parallel to the events of Plastic Beach--however, given this is an AU, expect several changes to certain characters and the plots that unfold. Fair warning that Murdoc/"2D" will be a thing, but at the moment I am uncertain I will do anything explicit, and will apply warnings as the chapters are written. Despite that, I fully plan to focus on other aspects of the storyline as well, and want to give Russel and Noodle a chance to shine, as canonically they did not get the screentime I felt they deserved. Enjoy!

The floating island went first.

Murdoc could still recall the image with such startling clarity that even the whiskey now burning his throat could not dull the horrendous memory.

Initially he had thought there was perhaps a line in the script he had simply overlooked, or—perhaps more irksome—a scene not previously disclosed to him. Something about black helicopters, steadily streaking across the darkening sky in pursuit of the Windmill island upon which their fledgling guitarist was perched.

At times these things were not discussed—or, at least, at times when Murdoc was not around. It seemed the others sought to keep him out of the loop when given the opportunity, and as he stepped down from the platform, moving through the sea of recumbent extras toward the window of the Feel Good Tower toward his singer, he had a mind to address 2D— _quite sternly_ , of course—about what he absolutely knew had to have been a change in script, made behind his back—

Then they began firing.

Murdoc could see the barrage of bullets— _real_ bullets—pitting the grass behind Noodle as she sprinted from her seated position, seeking shelter within the Windmill. The bassist shot a glance toward 2D, and another to Russel once he had joined them, to see panic on their faces—raw and horrified.

This most certainly was not scripted.

 _What could have been done?_ Murdoc still pondered this, gazing upwards at the desolate monument that was Kong—just at the same angle as he had upon exiting the Feel Good Tower with his two bandmates to stare helplessly upwards at the devastated Windmill isle, now set ablaze and slowly descending at a terrifying angle.

Yes, _what could they possibly have done?_ he bemoaned, taking another deep drink. How could they have stopped the fire from spreading, from consuming their youngest bandmate, no doubt shaking within the collapsing, shuddering edifice?

And then—then the helicopters came for _them_.

He had swung an arm over his face, feeling the sting of the pavement against his forearm as gunfire erupted against the ground around them. In a wild attempt at self-preservation, they had retreated back into the Tower, rounding the doorway and pressing their backs against the wall. Overcoming the pounding in his chest, Murdoc hazarded a gaze back around the corner, and now that he had just a moment to think—he realized he _knew_ those helicopters. Recognized their unique design and decals.

_The Black Clouds._

The island was now but a sliver of a smoking inferno, splitting the grey clouds like a fiery comet as it careened downwards in the distance.

He leaned back, shutting his eyes, attempting to rid himself of the sight—attempting to focus and to calculate what next to do—but found his mind sputtering and blanking. Now he couldn’t even recall the conversation that ensued, but it ended with Russel making his exit and braving the shrapnel, heading deeper into the city and towards the crashing island.

The sharpness of the memory quivered here, like the shaking of the ground as the bomb went off.

2D moved to evacuate, to tail Russel in a blatantly foolish act of futility, but Murdoc—instinctively, with a nearly crushing grip—grasped his wrist.

No, he wouldn’t lose him. _Couldn’t_ lose him.

Of all the things that Murdoc had lost to the brutality of time, his singer was the last thing that he would allow to be taken from him.

One more bomb—far away. Murdoc could feel his bones rattling, balance thrown. He could hear air raid sirens beginning to blare in the distance.

The third, closer now.

The singer thrashed, growled, then managed to wrench away from Murdoc as the explosion jarred the strength of his hand, sparing one last gaze—one last gaze of resolve despite the overwhelming fear—before speeding out of the Tower.

The last bomb—

And there was darkness.

And yet Murdoc was still here, a wandering zombie against all odds, one hand clasping the bottle, the other a can of red spray paint.

Fucking _coward_. That was his all-encompassing thought as he threw back that very last burning swig, then pitched the bottle onto the ground, glass shattering and splintering into a dozen glittering shards.

_You can die._

_You are a cunt._

He gnashed his teeth, red paint spitting against one of the foundation’s walls, right next to the steps that led up to the entrance, then, stumbling, treating the other in the same fashion.

_Murdoc can die._

_Murdoc is a cunt._

This was his way of mourning—his way of wallowing in self-pity.

He had risen from the rubble alone, after the fallout had settled, and beheld the ruins of the city: the gentle snow of blackened ash, the hush that only comes after the vilest of storms. He knew— _knew_ —he should not have been filled with such an overwhelming desire to save his own sorry hide, given his history of what one might refer to as… _resilience_ —but retreating was something he did well. Life had taught him this the hard way.

But he had to accept that the time for moping soon would have to pass, as it always had to. He could not sit on this stair forever and drunkenly beg for time to finally rot him into nothing. Such a thing would not be allowed—not just yet.


	2. In These Demon Days / It's So Cold Inside

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Murdoc had a saying that “one has not properly called upon the wicked netherspirits of the æther until he’s used a demon summoning guide most likely bound in tanned human flesh and procured from an ancient cult of Satanic monks that live in a haunted sewer system!”

People always underestimated Murdoc’s intellect. Whereas his public persona pervaded the consistent flavor of a womanizing, satanic boozehound with an extensive record collection, in actuality he quite enjoyed tinkering with a machine or two—or twenty-three. Tooling around was a quirky curiosity he had picked up in years previous—even _before_ the formation of Gorillaz, and given the numerous “odd jobs” he had had over the years, along with their many _unique_ demands. Audial machines, visual equipment, any type of vehicle one could think of—he’d tinkered with them all. However, it was a hobby he ended up keeping to himself. After all, one should always keep a few surprises hidden up their sleeve— _especially_ when looking for a brief _tryst_ or two.

It was true that he was a bit inebriated at the moment—doing a bit of staggering as he unlocked Kong and looked about, the atrium all flickering lights and abandoned silence—but most of his fiddling had been done in this state, whilst the rest of the band slumbered. Their intriguingly ramshackle headquarters had its share of sublevels below sublevels, and after a brief stop at his Winnebago to stuff several choice items into a satchel and sling it over his shoulder, he retreated below even those.

Down the elevator, descending several sets of stairs, through the musty corridor, passing a series of boarded-up entrances, before arriving at the door at the far end. He fumbled a moment, finding the key hidden away in his stash, then unlocked the chamber. Claws tapped against the inner wall blindly, then landed on the light switch and flicked it upwards, the dim and sputtering lightbulb revealing an array of mechanical doodads and baubles haphazardly strewn across the floor and strung up on the walls. Some were fairly rounded out—customized cameras, specially-tuned synthesizers, even a busted toy car he’d made from scratch for Noodle the first birthday she celebrated with the band (from which he made sure his eyes would stray). Many of them, however, were incomplete: halfhearted attempts at creating multiversal remotes, or blenders that could shred steel, or a particularly vile superweapon that could fry a man down to his neurons (which he had made on a particularly _bad_ day—and was yet another of his inventions from which he kept his gaze, lest he consider trying yet again to complete it).

Of particular note, however, and the object toward which Murdoc meandered, was a human-proportioned, doll-like creation of mish-mashed metal and wires, lying recumbent against the far wall. It was primarily featureless, like a department store mannequin that hadn’t been dressed for its window debut quite yet. Thus far he had only been able to animate it superficially—basic robotic maneuvers in response to electric stimuli—but proper sentience was still beyond his reach. He had hoped to engineer an A.I. simulation in order to achieve this feat—however, desperate times called for desperate measures, and he had just the fix for this little dilemma.

Or, what he _hoped_ would be just the fix.

First things first, the stumbling bassist took a heavy seat across from his creation, withdrawing from his bag a small circular, ebony case. He snapped it open, and within was what appeared to be a black lens floating in saline, into which he dipped his finger and scooped out the contact. It had been a while since he had had to use the enchanted meniscus, but his dealings with demons became far more _simplistic_ when they could not see the red Brand embedded into his left eye.

That bastard Beelzebub thought he could mark him for good to prevent any further dealings with demons? Murdoc snorted in the face of “binding” contracts.

However, he wasn’t exactly in the mood for snorting now, very mechanically lifting the contact and applying it to the convex shape of his left eye. He winced a few moments as it adhered, squeezing shut his lids in response to the magical energy seeping into his pupil, now serving as a shield against the Demonic Gaze. The usual crimson hue of the iris disappeared, and after a few more blinks, the color perfectly matched that of his right eye.

Second order of business once he’d forced his vision back to normal (albeit with a bit of a slight glaze from the enchantment), he retrieved yet another bottle of alcohol—this time a straight vodka spirit—and used his long thumb nail to pop it open. After throwing back a healthy dose of the burning stuff and hissing at the taste, he set it aside and moved on to taking out a hefty brown, leather-bound tome, upon which in all cursive, capital letters was written **NECRONOMICON**. First edition, of course—the _genuine_ article, and none of that “replica” rubbish that someone could throw a pocketful of euros at on Amazon.com. Murdoc had a saying that “one has not properly called upon the wicked netherspirits of the æther until he’s used a demon summoning guide most likely bound in tanned human flesh and procured from an ancient cult of Satanic monks that live in a haunted sewer system!”

It was true that the Portal to Hell was always an option—delving into the depths on foot in order to find what he was seeking—but he would prefer not to have any _unfortunate run-ins_ with any… _former acquaintances_. So he felt this would be his best option: a private little _tête-à-tête_ between two pals.

Undoing the locks on the two straps that kept it shut tight, he flopped it open to the center, and for a moment the air within the room seemed to shudder with a foreboding aura, but nearly instantaneously settled back to the unsettling silence. Considering just which foul entity would best suit his needs, he flipped through the pages. Unfortunately, in his current state, things were beginning to get a little blurrier, a little less intelligible, and the next drink he tossed back did him no favors.

Well then. Time for a little drunken game of _eenie meenie miney mo_.

Eventually, after leafing for a few minutes, his eyes settled on a hand-drawn depiction of a rather imposing figure—tall, black cloak, glowing crimson eyes in the center of a rounded face. Minimalist for sure, but it got the malicious aspect across quite nicely. Below the picture was inscribed “LARUA” in delicate scrawl, followed by an impressive slew of additional terms: _butzemann, babau, baubas, baubau, bauk, bebok, bobo, boeman, bogle, bogu, bua, bubulis, bubák, bubák, buka, busemann, bussemand, bwga, bwgan, bwogo, bòcan, bøhmand, mumus, papu, papão, piskie, pixie, pooka, pookha, puck, puki, pwca, púca, Μπαμπούλας, бабай, торбалан_ \---and last, but not least, and the most bolded and recognizable, _**Bogeyman**_.

The description on the opposite accompanying page was scarce, but nonetheless piqued his interest— _Entity of Dreaming, Nightmares, Memories, and Spiritual creation and Awakening_ —and was followed by the evocation rites and the sigil. They didn’t seem too complex: a bit of Demon Tongue and a circle of some form of cursed mineral—and at the moment, complexity was not what he needed.

Reaching back into his bag, he fished around for the “cursed mineral” requirement in the description for a few moments before finally getting miffed at his lack of coordination and dumping out the contents onto the floor. There fell out several different phials, each tinted a different color to indicate their contents; a few multicolored candles; a variety of incense; a lighter; a pen; a journal with blank parchment—and yet another bottle of alcohol. Chianti, circa 1966. He’d been saving it for a special occasion due to its auspicious date (or, perhaps, _inauspicious_ would be more precise), but now seemed as fine a time as ever to put it to use. “Special occasions” were probably going to be very scarce for a while.

He screwed in his thumbnail and popped the cork—an uncanny ability he had developed as he continued to manicure his seemingly inhuman talons—but, instead of taking a swill (like he was oh-so tempted to do at the moment), he placed it next to himself. He did, however, throw back another shot of vodka.

Now then. Onto the summoning.

One black candle lit, dragon’s blood incense placed carefully into its holder. He then sifted through the phials, doing his best to decide which “cursed mineral” would be most useful in this situation—salt, sand, herbs, blood (pig’s, goat’s, and chicken’s, for variety)—but he eventually settled on graveyard soil. Specifically, that which he had stolen from his father’s grave, and therefore, _highly_ cursed.

Using that, he made a circle—more of a clumsy oblong, really, but it would do, as demons did not normally have art degrees (although Murdoc had met a few that were quite artistic, but not so much that they could make careers from their craft).  Then, sitting heavily down within the confines of the wobbly ring, he picked up the pen and journal and scribbled out a larger version of the demon’s sigil, ripped it out from the spine, and placed it before him, holding the corner of it down with the wine bottle—just beyond the circle.

Everything looked to be in its proper place, and, breathing deep, he began to recite the incantation of conjuration.

At first the words slipped out easily—once he had gotten the hang of Demon Tongue, he realized it was basically like imitating a mixture of Mongolian throat singing, Olde German with a cold, and hocking phlegm forty meters into the air—but as reality steadily began to shake and shiver around him, an incorporeal bridge forming between this world and the Otherworldly divide, he had to grit his teeth and choke out each syllable as the torrential whirlwind reached its devastating crescendo—

—And then it was over.

Murdoc cast his eyes about. He hadn’t been sucked into an alternate realm of any kind, which was a relief, but the room was most definitely a shade darker than he recalled, despite the fact the candle was still lit.

But then it was there, all at once—naught but a single blink—and the demon emerged smoothly out of the shadowy void, like an ink-spill in reverse. The unexpectedly abrupt shift actually sobered Murdoc up a fraction as he realized the reason the room had been so dark was because the demon had been the darkness _itself_ , and now that it deigned it proper to reveal itself, had taken on a more solid form.

Most certainly, its depiction in the demon-summoning tome hardly did the true figure justice. This was a towering beast—nearly three heads taller than Murdoc himself, or at least offering the impression as such—jagged claws and bones and wispy, whispering darkness unraveling from its cloak. Its gasmask-like visage allowed no emotion aside two burning red infernos that served as eyes, from which Murdoc could sense intense demonic energy.

And the way it _breathed_ —a rhythmic, rattling wheezing…

Murdoc could feel Beelzebub’s contract burning all the way down to the optic nerve, and perhaps, he thought, he was direly out of his league.

However, he showed no sign of this, and despite the sweat that had begun to drip down his brow and the impending hangover headache throbbing within is brain, curled his fingers around the Chianti and slid it forward just a fraction: a _gift_ for his newest acquaintance.

The patented Niccals’ Snaggletooth Grin, then, “Let’s have a wee _chat_ , shall we?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not much to add, but I decided to alter the Bogeyman's story juuust a smidge. As a side note, I know it's meant to be spelled "Boogieman," but given how I've written him, he kinda feels like a different entity--maybe more malevolent to a degree--so I think the change suits this characterization.
> 
> So now that Murdoc's started on his bullshit, let's see how Russel is doing in the next chapter...


	3. The Plastic-Eating People

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It wasn’t just their physical features, scarred over and so broken and bent they appeared to be sewn together from a mishmash of leftover parts. No, something about their souls wasn’t entirely… mortal.

Russel opened his eyes.

The first thing he noticed was that it was pitch black. That did not alarm him in the least, given Kong was wont to suffer random blackouts all the time, whether from neglecting to pay the bills or from a damn zombie chewing through a cord.

The second thing—and far more alarming—was that he was in a lot of pain.

He slowly tried sitting up, as he had been sleeping on some sort of bunk bed, and for a moment he expected the physical agony to push him back down. However, he persisted, and the third thing that he noticed was that he was covered in bandages—the entirety of his arms and hands, and he could feel them around part of his face, stomach, and legs as well.

_What the hell_ happened…?

He forced himself to stand, against all odds, and upon squinting and adjusting his eyes to the darkness in his now-upright position, it appeared he was in some sort of prison cell. A reddish light in the distance illuminated the silhouette of the vertical bars encasing him, and getting to his feet, he walked toward them—albeit every step more difficult than the last.

Grasping the bars with his bound hands, he tested the durability of them, but found he was in no condition to properly gauge their sturdiness—therefore, no way he would be bending them and slipping through the spaces. So instead he squinted his eyes again to examine the room beyond his cage, and there was not much else he could discern, except that the light was above some sort of doorway—maybe an indicator that it was locked. He then noticed another red light—this one much smaller, barely even a pinpoint—that he recognized as one belonging to an actively recording camera.

No doubt in his mind he was being watched.

Otherwise, it was too dark to tell what else might lie in his surroundings, and as Russel considered returning to the bunk he’d been lying upon to sit down and mull over his options, there sounded an intolerably loud buzzer at the other end of the room, and the light over the door changed from red to a vibrant green. The hinges creaked eerily, and the doorway moaned as it scraped open, revealing several figures illuminated by the lamplight they carried—ghastly silhouettes that slinked into the chamber, approaching Russel’s cell with no doubt malicious intent.

However, Russel showed no sign of fear or unease as they drew closer—even as he who appeared to be the ringleader of the group leaned forward on a fanciful cane and inspected him with one bloodshot eye. He was a tall, crooked creature, with wicked lines in his face, a jagged scar erupting from behind an eyepatch and encompassing the entirety of his greasy forehead and stubbled cheek, and a hideous sneer that would make a weaker person feel faint.

The more Russel stared at him—stared at the crew that gathered at his back—the more his sixth sense alerted him that something about these people wasn’t entirely right here. It wasn’t just their physical features, scarred over and so broken and bent they appeared to be sewn together from a mishmash of leftover parts. No, something about their souls wasn’t entirely… _mortal_.

“Well well,” the crooked man drawled, voice a gravelly growl, as though his vocal cords had been lacerated and stitched together improperly, “seems like our new little friend is finally awake. Have pleasant dreams, hmm?”

“I don’t dream anymore,” was Russel’s quick and cold response, and he could clearly see his captors were taken aback by such nonchalance. It wasn’t as though the drummer wasn’t experiencing apprehension, but he was used to camouflaging his emotions with a stern demeanor. After all the horrible shit he had been through—the exorcisms, the gangbangers, the loss of so many beloved friends—it was an ill-fated necessity.

The leader of the insidious fold straightened his back—Russel could hear his rickety joints cracking and popping from the swift motion—and hissed, “Nonetheless, you’re in our care now, and I think it best you properly cooperate with us, lest you find yourself in an even more unfortunate predicament.”

Russel gripped the bars again, leaning as far forward as he could as he said, just as menacingly, “Just cut the bullshit, cuz I don’t have time for villainous speeches. What do you want from me? An autograph? I enjoy interacting with fans, but not the ones that are so damn pushy.”

The cane the man had been holding suddenly swung upward, then plunged forward, jabbing Russel in the gut. The drummer let out a loud grunt of pain before backing away a few clumsy steps, doubling over and grasping his stomach—but in an instant, his glare returned to his captors.

The crooked man grinned, showing off his yellowed teeth as he purred, “If we wanted to deal with a _funny man_ , we would call upon good ol’ Niccals to give us a decent chuckle—but as it is, he’s completely ghosted on us, _hasn’t_ he?”

Russel actually clenched his jaw at the mention of Murdoc. _Of course._ Of-fucking- _course_ this would all have to do with that slimy, Satanic, good-for-nothing idiot of a bassist. It wasn’t as though every single predicament they had ever found themselves in wasn’t somehow caused by his stupidly, constantly, and utterly reckless behavior.

And yet again, everyone else had been dragged into it.

…But, Russel had to wonder, where _was_ “everyone else?”

“Yeah, no doubt—it’s what he’s best at doing,” Russel spat, crossing his arms staunchly. He wasn’t about to let this jackass nail him in the stomach again. “So I take it that’s why I’m here, right?”

“Clever _clever_ , ain’t ye?” he mocked, turning his head a fraction toward his accomplices, and they each gave a unique guffaw to show their sadistic merriment before the leader lifted his cane, and all returned to silence. He tapped his cane twice, continuing, “Yes, dear Mr. Niccals has given us a fair amount of grief for a fair amount of time. Of course, just like the cockroach he is, it seemed he’s yet again slipped through the cracks—but we’ll be remedying that soon enough. So we’ll be takin’ right good care of you, just in case our _other_ plan doesn’t work out.”

“Yeah?” Russel prodded, daring to show a bit of amusement himself. “And what’s that?”

They seemed like a motley crew, very true, but they didn’t strike the drummer as too awfully savvy when it would come down to concocting evil-genius-par schemes.

However, his arms and confidence simultaneously dropped as the gang parted, and he realized that maybe, just _maybe_ , they were onto something—something _devastating_.

“…Noodle?”


	4. Remember That It's All In Your Head

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> . . . this particular spectre was not to be satisfied with just any memory it might encounter—its preferred tastes were the dreams and thoughts and reminiscings most precious, like freshly ripened fruit plucked straight from the proverbial branch.

The demon stared at Murdoc, and Murdoc stared back.

He knew for a fact that it was sizing him up—getting a feel for him. That was nothing new, given that’s what most demons did when they were confronted with _the_ Murdoc Niccals. His name had undoubtedly passed through many a demonic mouth—or beak, or gaping maw in which a version of teeth and a tongue were present.

Admittedly, this pause made him a tad nervous, as he would rather _not_ have to waste time summoning another demon that was not aware of his previous association with Beelzebub and how technically— _technically_ —his soul was currently off the market. However, it didn’t seem that there was any sort of recognition, as it did not stir in an unpleasant way—and, in fact, reached forward with its spindly claws and wrapped them around the base of the Chianti he had offered, then retracted its skeletal arm back into the folds of its cloak. Murdoc was uncertain how pleased the demon was with his offering—creatures of Hell could be such finicky chaps when it came to gifts—but given the bottle had disappeared into the abyss, he figured it was not entirely _displeased_ with his offering.

It waited.

Constructing a proper sentence was a bit of a hassle at the moment, given partial inebriation and partial headache, but Murdoc was always able to come up with something perfect, no matter how on-the-spot he was.

Gathering his thoughts, he finally spoke:

“I fucked up. And, ah—you’re gonna be the one to get me out of it.”

_Brilliant._

The demonic entity seemed to sway thoughtfully for a few moments before leaning forward, looming over him just a fraction of a centimeter outside the limit of the circle. Despite the distance, Murdoc could _feel_ its infernal energies licking at his face—a sensuous caress of utterly diabolical evil.

Inferring this as a sign of attentiveness, Murdoc continued:

“So I’ve got these blokes, yeah? Black Clouds. Nasty bunch of crooks that are into all sorts of—ah, _questionable_ activities. Had a bit of an ill-fated run-in with them a while ago and they’ve been tailing me ever since, and it’s lead to a lot of… _nonsense_.”

_Nonsense?_ More like _the utter and total annihilation of a city and all of his bandmates._

…Semantics.

“So, I had _planned_ to complete my, ah, _project_ —” and he motioned toward the doll, sitting undisturbed, and the demon glanced toward it— “and, y’know, add a few bells and whistles before booting it up and watching its pistons spin. But, unfortunately, that’s all _past_ tense, you see. Given I’m a tad pressed for time, I doubt I could achieve such a feat, nor do I have the energy to play black magic puppeteer while dealing with this Clouds rubbish. Therefore, it needs a bit of _autonomy_ —” and he brought his index finger and thumb together, barely a centimeter apart, “— _juuust_ a _smidgen_ , of course—” then a wave of his hand as he completed his thought quickly, “—enough for it to serve as my completely, totally, and utterly loyal full-time bodyguard. Obviously.”

Murdoc’s explanation complete, the demon regarded him once more with those impassive “eyes” with absolute silence. Despite its inability to harm Murdoc, as well as being unable to dismiss itself, it could still state its desire to turn down a bargain.

—If it could even state anything.

But as that thought passed through Murdoc’s mind, a long-fingered claw curled outward from beneath its robe, each knuckle and joint cracking as the talons extended, palm facing upward.

**Payment.**

The creature did not actually _speak_ the word, but Murdoc could feel it reverberating within his skull, the “sound” of it a chain dragging along pavement, nails scraping at the inside of the coffin lid—the shattering of bone and tearing of sinew.

For a moment he thought heard his father.

Stilling the mounting queasiness squirming around within his innards, Murdoc breathed deep—exhaled—and realized how painfully sober he was.

“What _every_ demon seems to ever want from those who’ve summoned them,” he responded, managing to stay the course with his sarcastic tone. “After the next album’s a hit, you’ve got my soul. I mean, it’s a little burnt out and worn down from years of hedonistic debauchery, but it can always be refurbished. Like a Sega Dreamcast—or, whatever rubbish electronics the kids are into these days.”

The Bogeyman did not respond to his offhanded and self-deprecating humor; instead, after several unsettling moments more of quietude, it simply turned its talons back down, bending each of them with the exception of its pointer, and lifted it to Murdoc’s face. Now that the bassist had made his offer, and he could determine that the demonic entity seemed quite satisfied with it, it was time for him to be Marked.

Murdoc recalled the first time this had happened to him, upon making his pact with Beelzebub: the agony he had felt down to his very core, as though his left eye was being gouged and seared by a steaming hot iron. But he told himself at the time it would be worth it—so _worth_ it. He would have his band—the fame and fortune that he deserved after all the wasted time and youth—and he would show them. _Show them all._

And even though he had come prepared and braced himself as thoroughly as possible, he could nonetheless feel the heat of this new binding contract sealing itself around his throat, in the form of some sort of an invisible choker— _how very cheeky_ —and simultaneously the contact vibrating against his eye.

At first this was merely a grimace-and-growl-worthy set of unpleasant sensations—but “unpleasant” soon bled into “throbbing aching,” and that developed further into “pretty damn painful, actually,” and finally led into—as Murdoc actually finally gave in and let out an agonized howl—

_—He is suddenly ten years old again, and the burning feeling around his throat has been replaced by the squeeze of a grimy, sweaty palm, jagged nails digging into his flesh. Perhaps it is not so much the actual physical pain that he is experiencing, but the recollection of it—the raw, unhindered emotion attached to it: fear, loathing, rage, cutting so much more fiercely than the corporal punishment ever could. The hideous voice of his half-brother hisses against his ear, mocking him, mocking his “loony wench” of a mother, mocking his failures and insecurities. Needling him, that fucking bastard, just like he always does—_

The memory faded, and Murdoc clawed at his throat, as though to detach the phantom fingers that had clutched his windpipe. However, they were gone—but in this vast darkness in which he found himself, he knew that the demon most certainly was not.

No, he could feel it was _very_ much present—delving deep, cocooning itself in the intense web of his memories, searching for _something_ that would satiate its desire for a proper bargain.

_Payment._

But this particular spectre was not to be satisfied with just any memory it might encounter—its preferred tastes were the dreams and thoughts and reminiscings most precious, like freshly ripened fruit plucked straight from the proverbial branch.

It takes a metaphorical breath, and dives again—

_—Murdoc is eighteen, staring down at an array of chalk scribbled on the floor, palms of his hands slick with blood_ —the demon is denied, pushed away from the thought as Murdoc clenched desperately onto the memory— _and now Murdoc is twenty-seven, a pistol pressed to his temple, and the demon can feel his heart pulsing and rattling as his finger quivers on the trigger—_

Yet each time Larua brushed against a memory, his summoner sought to refuse him—which was, admittedly, something that was not entirely out of the ordinary. Most did not take well to bodily invasion, possession not high on the list of things humans enjoyed—but there was something particularly stubborn in the way Murdoc nudged the demon away from viewing the reel of his memories.

So it meandered away from going too far back, for it seemed to the demonic entity that the musician’s life had not taken a decent turn until—

Ah, _at last_ , the Bogeyman was finally greeted with something substantial to meet its needs—a sense of warmth and serenity not present within the other visions he had perused.

_March 5 th, 2001—the premiere of their single _Clint Eastwood _. Murdoc stands out at the edge of the balcony of Kong Studios, elbows on the railing as he gazes out upon the absolutely abysmal scenery (which, actually, quite suits his personal tastes), and though he has downed two bottles of champagne, a third one pops in the background, and he shifts his glance toward the sound._

The infernal pixie perked at the overwhelming emotion invoked from the images playing out before it, and finally, believing it had found what it required as Murdoc ceased his mental struggling, settled here to behold the spectacle.

_2D walks towards him, a goofy grin gracing his features, displaying the gaps in his teeth as he showcases the champagne in one hand and two glasses in the other. Murdoc can’t recall how many more drinks he had, but eventually he has his arm around 2D’s shoulders, and he’s close enough to capture his scent—vanilla, butterscotch, a few too many shots of whiskey. His cheek brushes against his—an accident, of course—and it’s utter rapture._

_This is a perfect moment. At last, Murdoc feels the swell of pride one experiences when he receives the recognition he deserves—the fame, the status, the_ respect _. And yet another flame burns surprisingly brighter, and as he steals yet another precious glance at 2D, admiring the lovely slopes of his profile, the soft spikes of his azure hair, the way he sighs as he rests the points of his elbows on the railing—he feels something even more overpowering than his long-awaited victory: possessiveness. For though Gorillaz is indeed his band, 2D is entirely his creation—a brilliant being molded by his own hand, and any godforsaken fool that would dare try to steal away what was_ his—

The demon paused the memory, metaphorically flitting closer to the image as its spidery fingers curiously reached out to “touch” the cheek of the man before it. The source of the warmth—something Murdoc cherished above all else.

It shifted away, the scene fading, and it swiftly began leafing through the endless cascade of reflections including this “2D.” The demon found amongst them Murdoc’s most treasured, most vivid recollections, each subsequent emotion stronger and more succulent than the last. It bore witness to those most private interactions _(a hand upon his thigh, a head on his shoulder, unsteady breathing, this cannot be real)_ , to those many harsh trials _(fingers around his throat, tears in his eyes, how could he be so foolish, why can’t he just become numb—it’s not fucking fair)_ , to the heartbreak and joy and fury—

On and on.

_Everything_ belonging to 2D.

—And the Bogeyman commenced plucking the sweetest of these memories, hoarding them away from the mines of Murdoc’s memories, until they were compiled into a singular, pulsating energy—

And the pact was complete.

The demon withdrew its influence, and Murdoc sucked in a hard breath as he opened his eyes—

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ciffhangerrr! And sorry for my slowness, I have other projects that I've been tending to (a piece for the Devil's Nest zine due in a few days (which I've been... putting off yikes), LARP character stuff, w o r k, etc), but I have to admit, my notes have been expanding and expanding on this! And a big thank you to everyone who has commented/kudos'd/bookmarked. As someone who used to really be into the fandom years ago and is trying to get back in the saddle, it really means a lot. :')


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